The Melted Man
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: A version of ACD's The Crooked Man. An old army friend requests John and Sherlock's help when her husband dies in mysterious circumstances. Emotional revelations ensue. Post reunion, non S3 compliant. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is my version of ACD's story, The Crooked Man, updated for the post 9/11 age. I take no responsibility for the consistency of the plot line, I just sort of fumbled it to get it out. Also, I always forget to mention these days that Sherlock, characters etc belong to ACD, Gatiss, Moffat, yadda yadda yadda, for which blessings be upon them eternally for bringing this beauty into our lives.

**Please review** at length, because I love to hear your views on my clangers, and correspond with you if you like.

_**Daily Updates promised.**_

* * *

'Dr Watson? Dr John Watson?'

'Speaking.' John swapped the phone to his other ear as he pushed the piles of paper around the kitchen table top, trying to find a spare sheet and a pen.

'My name is Edmund Paston, I'm a solicitor representing a Mrs Julia Cornforth. She asked me to ring you in the hope of your help in a serious criminal case.'

'Julia Cornforth?' John frowned, rifling through his memory for a clue. In the living room, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but failed to open his eyes or move from his familiar 'thinking' pose, stretched out on the sofa.

Then the penny dropped.

'God, Julia Weston, Captain Julia Weston?'

'Yes, I believe Weston was her maiden name.'

'Amazed she even remembers me-'

'She seems to have an extremely animated memory of you, Dr Watson.'

'Oh, right. Er, so, what's the problem?'

'Mrs Cornforth is unfortunately implicated in her husband's death. She believes you might be able to help her defence.'

'Right.' John gave it some thought. 'OK, just give me some details.'

Twenty minutes later, John hung up and examined the sheet of paper that he had scribbled notes on. He got up and sidled into the living room. Sherlock had not moved a muscle.

'I presume this is the moment when you ask me for _another_ favour?' Sherlock sounded utterly bored. He opened one eye and looked down his nose at his flatmate.

'That's pretty much the size of it, yes.'

He huffed and sat up. 'How long are you going to milk this for, John?'

'I was thinking indefinitely,' John grinned. 'Faking your own death leaves you with a lot to make up to me.'

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes. 'Alright, what is it?'

'A cross between a locked room mystery and what looks like a straight up domestic homicide but isn't.'

'Not much more than a four at best, then, even if I were to squint _very_ hard, which I won't. In my experience, if it looks like a straight up domestic homicide, it usually is.'

John gave him the sheet of paper. 'Come on, you've nothing better to do, and we can get out of the house and help a friend at the same time.'

'I thought you said she hardly knew you?'

'Long story. I was at Sandhurst with her, then went off to the RAMC. She was drafted to the infantry. Next time I saw her was in Iraq. We did a tour there together.'

'Literally?' Sherlock frowned over the paper, and then gave John an old-fashioned look.

'No, but it wasn't for want of trying on my part, believe me!' John pulled on his jacket and then handed Sherlock his Belstaff. 'She's bloody gorgeous, but she only went for the prettiest men in the regiment. I didn't have a chance.'

He was rather gratified at Sherlock's sceptical expression.

'Even the 'Three Continents' reputation didn't work on her?'

'My charms were apparently wasted. She was seeing a bloke called Colman at the time, very handsome, could have done modelling. Cornforth was the Major in charge of the battle group – he was badgering her, but she wasn't keen. Something must have happened because apparently she's married to him now.'

'Or was,' Sherlock pointed out as they left the flat. 'Where are we going?'

'Aldershot. Didn't you read the notes?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You're a doctor. I may be a genius, but even I can't read your handwriting!'

* * *

It was a bright summer's day and Sherlock was sweltering in his overcoat by the time their train pulled in at Aldershot, but he was adamant he wouldn't take it off. The platform was brightly decorated with hanging baskets full of geraniums and lobelia, a patriotic display of red, white and blue typical of a garrison town.

'Happy memories?' Sherlock asked John, as they stepped down from the train.

'Just memories,' John shrugged.

Paston was waiting for them, a bright-faced and eager man in his mid-thirties with a shock of curly hair. John introduced Sherlock, and the solicitor's eyes widened appreciably.

'Well, that would explain why Julia was so vociferous,' he said, pumping Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock affected a false smile and said: 'Shall we get on, then?'

* * *

Paston drove them out of town in his second-hand Volvo estate. Sherlock sat on the back seat, huffing. By the time they reached the army base, John was ready to deck him.

'You could at least _try_ to pretend this isn't beneath you,' he hissed at the detective as they got out of the car.

The base commander was assigned a pleasant house set behind the main married quarters area, and this was where the Cornforths lived. It was a large sixties built house, set in the centre of a square of lawn with no flower borders, which had the effect of making it looked unloved and uninhabited. The drive was blocked by forensics services vans, and notably, by Military Police cars as well as the local Hampshire force vehicles.

'Red caps,' John snapped to Sherlock. 'Mind your Ps and Qs, they don't have such a long fuse as the Met.'

Sherlock contrived to look pleasant as an almost comically tall MP officer came striding down the path from the house's open front door, his red beret shining brightly in the sun. He shook hands with Paston.

'You must be Captain Watson,' he said, turning to John and ripping off a smart salute.

John responded in kind, then shook the man's hand. 'Long retired, I'm afraid.'

'Your reputation precedes you, though, sir,' the copper said. 'I'm Jeffries, the SIO on this case.' He turned to Sherlock. 'You must be Mr Holmes.'

To John's amazement, Sherlock shook his hand warmly. 'Perhaps we could see the crime scene?'

'I want you to know that I can't believe that Julia is responsible for this, but the whole thing is just damned weird. We can't make head nor tail of it, and neither can the Hampshire lads.'

'What is Mrs Cornforth's story?'

'Well, that's half the problem,' Paston said. 'She's in hospital in a state of mental and physical collapse at the moment. No one can get any sense out of her at all about this.'

'But she managed to ask for us?' Sherlock said, eyebrow raised.

'It was the only thing she said that actually made any sense at all,' Paston admitted

'We're having to piece everything together from the physical evidence and a couple of bystanders,' Jeffries added.

They went into the house through the front door. There was a long hall with doors leading off it.

'Tell me what you _do_ know,' Sherlock said, examining the carpet.

'The Colonel had just come in from the base office. There was a cocktail party planned for later in the evening. Mrs Cornforth had not arrived, but Mrs Radclive and Mrs Winterton were in the kitchen preparing the buffet.'

'Mrs Radclive and Mrs Winterton being?' Sherlock inquired.

'Friends of Mrs Cornforth. Army wives.' Jefferies turned to John. 'You know the sort. All sticking together.'

'Socialising on the base is part of the commander's wife's role,' John explained to Sherlock. 'She's expected to make all the other wives comfortable and create a friendly atmosphere, get everyone involved.'

Sherlock could not hide his distaste.

'Sherlock, these are people who move locations every two years. They don't have time to put down roots, so the army provides the only family and social support they have. Its part of the package.'

'Yes, John, I appreciate that. Now, can we get on?'

'Mrs Cornforth arrived about twenty minutes after her husband,' Jeffries continued. 'Mrs Radclive says she was in quite a state. She and the Colonel went into the living room and closed the door. There were raised voices, and then a scream. The two ladies went in and found the colonel dead on the floor, and Mrs Cornforth insensible on the sofa.

'In here?' Sherlock pointed through the first door in the corridor, and Jeffries nodded.

He and John hovered on the threshold and watched as Sherlock cased the room, examining everything. He paid particular attention to the french windows at the far end, and to the chinz curtains on them.

'I need a step ladder.'

'What for?' John asked whilst the forensics lads went to fetch one.

'Top of the pelmet,' Sherlock growled, as if it was obvious.

The stepladder was retrieved and set up, and Sherlock climbed up to examine the wooden shelf from which the pelmet of glazed chinz hung. He took out his magnifying glass and went over both the top surface and the cuffs of pelmet and curtains themselves in deep detail.

Then he stalked back to the centre of the room.

'The body was here?' he asked, pointing to the area just in front of the fire.

'Yes.' Jeffries made a gesture with his arm to indicate the positioning.

'And Mrs Cornforth?'

'Here, on the sofa.'

'Lying how?'

Jeffries suggested her diagonal position across the cushions with a wave of his hand. Sherlock frowned and then went back to the patio door.

'Has this been fingerprinted?' he asked, pointing at the handle.

'Yes, but the lads couldn't get anything off it.'

'Hmmm. When was it closed?' Sherlock opened it, and John thought it curious that it had not been locked.

'It was closed when we got here,' Jeffries said. 'The ladies never said anything about it being open.'

Sherlock crouched down on the threshold, examining the step down onto the lawn. Then he sprang up and jumped out, avoiding the area exactly in front of the door, and stalking along, bent over, his eyes scanning the grass.

'Is he always this theatrical?' Jeffries whispered to John out of the corner of his mouth. Sherlock called out before he could answer.

'You never thought to look out here?'

'The door was closed.'

'Of course.' Sherlock stood up and beckoned. They stepped out, carefully avoiding the area he had. When they reached him, he wafted his arm, indicating a silvered track in the grass.

'The lawn is a little longer here than at the front – whoever was responsible for cutting it presumably does front and back on separate days, and had not come back to complete the back yet. You see here? Footprints. Someone was outside, someone who was looking in through open French windows during the argument between Colonel and Mrs Cornforth. A man with an awkward gait, a pronounced limp, in fact.'

Sherlock's eyes scanned the perimeter of the garden, which was formed by a low, sparse line of shrubs. 'What's out there?'

'Nothing. Well, just a bit of heath, and then the perimeter fence, but he could not have come in that way – it's been electrified since 9/11 and there are regular patrols.'

'Nevertheless, see where the tracks come from and return to? That is the way he came and left – in something of a hurry, by the looks of it. Who is allowed onto the base? Not the general public, I presume?'

'Only those with clearance, plus cleaners and civilian staff, of course. And the Old Soldiers Lunch Club, they meet at the Officers Mess every Thursday.'

'Quite a wide range of potential suspects then,' Sherlock remarked, and John cringed a little at his implied criticism of base security.

'You can't keep a place as big as this locked down, Mr Holmes, even if it is a major supply depot. We just couldn't run otherwise.'

'Of course.' Sherlock brushed dust off his fingers. 'Right, I should like to see the body now.'

As they went out to get back into Paston's car, Jeffries and the solicitor went ahead. John fell in beside Sherlock.

'Not a locked room mystery, then?' he said.

'More of a damsel in distress,' Sherlock replied with a small smile.

'So you know who did it?'

'I haven't got a name yet.'

'Care to elaborate?'

'Not really.'

* * *

**Tomorrow, the investigation continues….**


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note:** Today's episode is especially for **WitchRavenfox**, because its her birthday!

Thank you to everyone who has favourited and reviewed. Reviews give me hope that this isn't a complete disaster! It is a bit of a new departure, so I am still finding my confidence with it.

And in case you are wondering, the cat riding thing is real. We used to see a lady all the time in Norwich who did this. She came up to town in the train, cat perched neatly on her shoulder.

* * *

Driving back across the town, they had the windows rolled down to alleviate the heat that had built up whilst the car had been parked in the sun. It was sweltering, and even Sherlock had to admit defeat and shed his coat. John was sitting in the back with him and, with a glance out of the corner of his eye, saw a sheen of perspiration on Sherlock's upper lip. It made him think of something his mother used to say to Harry when she complained about how much she sweated in the summer heat.

'Only horses sweat! Gentlemen perspire, and ladies gently glow.'

Sherlock definitely was of the perspiring class. But the bloody man, even a faint dew of perspiration looked good on him!

They had stopped at traffic lights when a figure limped up to the car and hailed them.

'Alright, Mr Paston?'

Paston waived his arm and smiled indulgently up at the man, who was leaning on the upper door sill with the heel of his hand, his dog-eared waterproof jacket crackling. He was quite a sight.

The first thing that struck John was the cat. A large ginger cat with a self-satisfied expression. The man's back was twisted up and bent over so badly that the cat had a perfect platform on which to sit happily, whatever movement his carrier made. Round his marmalade coloured ruff he wore a pink collar with a huge CND medallion hanging from it. It made quite an impression.

'Hello, Pete. How's Bob?'

'Oh, grumpy as usual,' Pete said, glancing up at the animal riding him like a Moghul emperor on an elephant. 'Doesn't like this heat. Turned his nose up at a perfectly good can of tuna this morning!'

'You spoil him, that's his trouble,' Paston laughed, genially.

'Well, he's the only one who'll put up with me, so I s'pose I have to really!'

Pete managed a lop-sided smile back.

The second thing that struck John about Pete was his horrific scarring. His face was stretched and shiny down one side, the eye pulled and hooded, the mouth misshapen. It was clear something truly catastrophic had caused his injuries, because when John glanced down at his free hand, he saw that it was clawed and missing three fingers. Pete lent against the car, bow-legged and in obvious pain. The whole of his right side seemed to have been blasted, and the vicious scarring crept round his chin and neck and over the lower part of his left cheek as well.

Pete peered into the car. 'Going on a picnic, are we?'

'Colleagues from London,' Paston said, as Pete fixed John with a particularly curious stare.

The lights changed.

'Better go,' Paston said.

'See you at the pub Friday night?'

'Definitely!' Paston called as he pulled away.

'Local colour?' Sherlock asked, dripping acid.

'Oh, Pete's alright. Bit of a sad case, really,' Paston explained as they picked up speed. 'Something horrible must have happened to him but no one knows what – he doesn't remember. Doesn't even know his own real name, apparently. Everybody calls him Peter Storm because he always wears that waterproof. He's very badly disabled by his burns.'

'The kids round here call him the Melted Man,' Jeffries put in. 'We had to caution a bunch of them from the base the other day for throwing stones at him, poor sod.'

'Nice to know that children are consistent in their cruelty,' Sherlock muttered, and John felt a twinge of sympathy for him. His friend knew well from personal experience how cruel kids could be.

* * *

The Pathology Department of the town's hospital was predictably in the basement, with the entrance around the back from the main public one. Hidden away, in other words. The duty pathologist came out to the reception area to meet them. He was a small, bald man hiding behind comically thick glasses. He reminded John of Dr Bunsen Honeydew in the Muppets.

'Thanks for coming, Lieutenant,' he said, shaking the red cap's hand. Jeffries introduced him as Professor James. When he heard Sherlock's name, he lit up with delight.

'Oh, I've read your blog, I'm a huge fan!' he enthused. John felt gleeful.

Sherlock looked disdainful. 'It's not _my_ blog,' he growled.

The pathologist seemed too star-struck to notice. 'I loved the one about the snake coming down the bed post, very ingenious. I'm very interested in poisons myself, something of a passion with me, although only in a professional capacity, you understand. Do come through, I've prepared everything for you.'

Once inside the main morgue, they could have been anywhere from London to Aberdeen. It was just a standard clinical environment, with a row of steel autopsy tables, just like the one where Molly Hooper worked at Barts. Only one of the tables was occupied, the corpse covered with a standard white sheet. They gathered around it.

'So, what're your conclusions,' John asked.

'Well, difficult one, this one,' Professor James-not-Bunsen-Honeydew said, grinding his palms together awkwardly. 'I'd definitely say he died because his heart stopped. Beyond that, it gets a little problematic.'

'Everybody dies because their heart stops,' Sherlock snapped. 'Can't you be more specific?' He shot John his 'what am I doing out here in this godforsaken rustic backwater – you'd better be bloody grateful is all I can say' glare.

'First off, there are no marks on the body, no sign of disease, puncture wounds or congenital heart defects,' James went on. 'I've run the standard tox screens, which have all come back negative. I've sent off a second panel, more specific to poison indicators, but to be frank, I don't expect any positive hits on those either. Colonel Cornforth was as fit as a fiddle. Possibly fitter. And then, well, there's this-'

He pulled back the sheet, revealing the late Colonel Cornforth's head and shoulders.

John had to look away. He had seen far too many corpses that looked like that. Frankly, even one was too many.

Jeffries gasped, 'Jesus!' under his breath.

Paston clapped his hand over his mouth and scurried out of the room.

'Yes, well,' James went on. 'You chaps probably see a lot of these out in the field, but I have to admit, before this one, I'd only heard stories, and I wasn't inclined to believe them.'

Sherlock, John noticed, had gone pale. Paler than usual, at any rate. 'You aren't seriously trying to suggest-'

'He died of fright, yes.'

'More like terror,' Jeffries said. 'God, I'll never get used to that look.'

Sherlock turned to appeal to his flatmate. 'Really, John, please?'

John shook his head. 'Sorry, Sherlock. I've seen it before on the battlefield. Not often, it's true. Nevertheless, some people _do_ literally die of fright.'

Sherlock pushed his chin forward, looked as if he was going appeal again, ask more, but then seemed to relent. He steepled his hands, pressed his fingers to his upper lip, and gazed thoughtfully at the Colonel's horribly distorted features.

'Very well,' he said, eventually. 'Suppose you are right? He died of fright. What are human beings most afraid of?'

'Death,' Jeffries answered.

Sherlock turned to John and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

John smiled back, knowing what was expected of him, knowing Sherlock trusted his judgement totally. Sherlock was asking a question for which, for once, he didn't have the answer, and he knew John would.

'Ourselves,' he replied. 'Because we know what we are capable of.'

Sherlock was silent for a moment. The morgue was filled with an expectant hush. Then the detective's eyes brightened.

'Yes, John. Yes. As usual, you are the perfect conductor for lightning.' He looked up at Jeffries. 'The Colonel saw something at that window that terrified him so much that it stopped his heart dead. He saw what he was capable of. He saw his past.'

* * *

Emily Radclive sat on the edge of her Laura Ashley sofa, tugging at the cuff of her Boden shirt nervously. Her eyes darted from one face to another. Her cheeks were a little flushed.

John was wedged between Sherlock and Jeffries on the sofa opposite. Paston stood at the window behind, sucking fresh air like a beached trout. He was still a little pale around the gills from the shock in the morgue.

'Why don't you tell us about the Old Soldiers Lunch Club, Mrs Radclive?' Sherlock inquired. Jeffries shot him a questioning glance, which he ignored.

Emily Radclive flushed down to her collar, all red and blotchy

'How did you know about that?' She said.

'Tell us about the last meeting,' Sherlock pressed.

'Well.' She looked at her hands, began to twist her diamond engagement ring round and round on her finger.

'Mrs Cornforth saw someone there, didn't she? Someone she knew?'

'He hadn't come before,' she explained. 'I've seen him about town, of course. You don't miss someone who looks, well, you know. He can't help it, I suppose, and you learn not to judge, seeing how some of them come home, but I'd never seen anything quite that bad before.'

When she lost her train of thought and sank into silence, John coaxed her on: 'Go on, Mrs Radclive.'

'Things hadn't been too good between Julia and Andrew for a while, from what she said. I felt sorry for her really. She'd made a mistake, and she couldn't get out of it. He wasn't that kind of man-'

'Was he violent?'

'Oh, no, nothing like that!' She gasped, quick to defend. 'No, not violent, so much. A bit, well, controlling is the best word, I think. He liked to know where she was all the time, who she was seeing, that sort of thing. Told her what to wear and who she could be friends with.'

'And the lunch club,' Sherlock pressed.

'We'd served the meals and everyone was sitting down, having a lovely time, like we do, just nattering – and then _he_ came in. As soon as she saw him, her face changed. I pretended not to notice but it was obvious she recognised him from somewhere. You don't forget a face like that, do you? Still, I had the feeling she knew him from before, if you know what I mean? Anyway, I said I was going to send him away, but she said that No, he was entitled, just like every serviceman. I don't know how she knew he'd been in the army, but she seemed very sure. I was going to take him a plate out, but she said she'd do it, and she went to speak to him. I looked out of the serving hatch. They seemed very animated.'

'Could you hear what they were saying?' Jeffries asked.

She shook her head. 'No, but they both seemed upset. He looked as if he was trying not to cry. I couldn't see her face – she had her back to me - but after she sent him away, she came back in to get on with plating up the dessert, and she seemed very distressed. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn't say anything much, just that she was going to have to leave early, and that she'd had some bad news. She obviously didn't want to talk about it, so I left it.'

'When was this, exactly?' John wondered.

'Oh, just the day before yesterday. I knew I was going to be seeing her before the cocktail party – we were all going to set up together, Julia and Pippa and I – and I thought she'd talk about it then.'

'Tell us about the day of the cocktail party?' John pursued.

'Yesterday? Well, I don't know that I can say any more than what I already told the police-'

'We'd find it very helpful if you could just go over what you remember for us.'

'Yes, of course – in case I remember anything else, I suppose. Well, er, I picked Pippa up at 4, and we went up to Sainsbury's to do the shopping, like we'd planned. We got to Julia's about five, that was when we'd planned to as well, but she wasn't there, so we let ourselves in – I have a key, so I can pop in when they are away, check everything is alright. Anyway, the Colonel came in about half past. He was a bit huffy that Julia was late, went on about her not taking her role seriously, and Pippa and I just kept out heads down and got on with the vol au vents. Then I heard the door go, and she called out to let him know she was home, like she normally does. Only there was something in her voice, an odd tone-'

'What kind of tone?' Sherlock broke in.

'Well, sort of upset, really. Angry, I suppose. She came into the kitchen and said she needed to speak to him in the living room. Pippa and I sort of looked at one another. We just thought it was another one of their arguments. I heard the door close, and there were raised voices –'

'What were they saying?'

'Well, it was rather muffled.'

'Don't pretend you weren't listening in intently,' Sherlock said in a rather arch tone.

'I resent that!' She cried.

'But you did hear, didn't you?'

She scowled at him. 'It was something about Iraq,' she said defiantly. 'And a man named Mike. I heard her accuse the colonel of lying about something. He started really shouting then, calling her all sorts of horrible names, and she said he was a liar and a murderer, and then suddenly there was her screaming, and Pippa and I panicked. We tried the door – we thought he was hurting her, you see – but we couldn't get in. So we rang 999 on my mobile.'

'And the police broke the living room door open?' John asked.

'Yes.' She looked sadly at her hands again. 'It was horrible, seeing him lying there like that.'

'I can imagine,' John sympathised.

'When did you close the French windows, Mrs Radclive?' Sherlock asked, as if it were obvious.

Her head snapped up. 'I didn't.'

'You did.'

She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing.

'Did you close the window, Mrs Radclive,' Jeffries pressed.

She looked from Sherlock to the red cap and back, obviously frightened.

'It's better to tell us now, Mrs Radclive,' John coaxed.

'Yes, alright, I did. I did it as soon as we got into the room.'

'The officers who gained entry didn't prevent you from doing so?' Jeffries clearly wanted to know whose arse he was going to have to kick.

'I don't think they even noticed.'

'But you closed them because you didn't want them to see that another person had been present. A man with whom you suspected Mrs Cornforth was or had been intimate.' Sherlock steepled his fingers.

'I wasn't sure it had been him,' she said, slowly. 'But then I saw the cat hair by the door. And Julia doesn't have a cat, you see?'

* * *

Tomorrow, the chief suspect...


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: ** This is for all those Sherlockians who are sitting in Speedy's right now, enjoying their Sherlock wraps. I'm thinking of you.

Thank you for all the reviews. Its such a relief to know that I appear to have got it right so far...

* * *

'I was wondering how long it'd take you get here, Mr Holmes,' Peter Storm said when he opened his front door. The ginger cat, Bob, tangled around his ankles protectively.

They trooped into his tiny flat, and he slumped down in a threadbare chair and heaved his leg up into the stool in front of it with his hands and a grunt of effort.

'Hope you don't mind, its particularly bad today. Sit yourselves down, gents, get comfortable. You'll want to hear all about it.'

They sat awkwardly together on the down at heel sofa. It was a newish flat, freshly decorated by the housing association, and refitted for the needs of a disabled tenant. It was as obsessively neat as John would expect from a career soldier, but everything was second-hand and rather shabby.

'You're Michael Colman, aren't you?' John said immediately.

The Melted Man smiled his lop-sided, scarred grimace. 'I didn't think you'd remember me, John. But I remember you. I won't forget what you did in Barassa, either.'

Sherlock gave John a perplexed look, but John said, 'We aren't here to talk about that, Mike. We need to know about you and Cornforth.'

'Tell me how Julia is, first,' Colman said, leaning back in his chair in obvious discomfort. The cat jumped up into his lap and he stroked it as it settled into a ball on his thighs, clearly unaware he was even doing it.

'Julia is in a state of collapse,' Paston told him. 'She's at the hospital, under guard.'

Colman gurned in distress.

'There's no need for that, you leave her alone,' he barked, his voice rough enough to make John realise that even his vocal chords must have been damaged by the fire that had broken him.

'What happened between you and Cornforth?' Sherlock asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

The cat began to purr loudly as Colman scratched its ears.

'Iraq happened,' he sighed. 'And Julia.'

A car passed by outside. The nets on the open windows billowed as the evening breeze picked up, cooling the room.

'Julia and I were drafted to Iraq together. That was where we fell in love. Just snatched moments between duties, you know how it is. You grab what time you can, in country. But I knew right from the start. There would never be anyone else for me. She said she felt the same. We were going to get married when we got home, but we didn't tell anybody. It seemed like tempting fate. We didn't want to get injured or worse before our tour was over. Soldiers are superstitious people, aren't they John?'

'Yes, they are,' John nodded, with a sad smile.

'Andrew Cornforth was the only fly in the ointment. He fancied Julia and he wouldn't take no for an answer. He was our commanding officer, which made it even more difficult. He made sure we were assigned duties that prevented us from seeing each other. He made complaints about me to try and get me sent home early. He wanted her for himself, you see. Julia didn't think he was a threat, she didn't take him seriously, but there was something about that man, something you couldn't trust. I warned her he'd try something. And I was right.'

'What did he try?' Jeffries frowned.

'It was right in the middle of the Insurgency. I was put in charge of a patrol team in Najaf. You remember that time, John, it was a mess.'

'Yes,' John agreed, trying to ignore the past crowding in on him from every side.

Colman shook his head, and his eyes took on that familiar cast that John knew so well. The Thousand Yard Stare.

'They knew we were coming. I don't know how, but Cornforth had tipped them off. One minute we were walking down a quiet street, the next my point man had stepped on an IED, and there were bullets flying everywhere. It's a blur now. I was taken prisoner, along with two of my men.'

'That was when you were injured?' Sherlock probed.

'Oh, no, that wasn't till much later. It was the usual thing to begin with. They wanted information. We held out as long as we could. When things had got as bad as they could possibly get, we told them what we knew. I'm not ashamed. We put up a good fight, but you can't hold out against that kind of torture.'

The room fell silent.

John felt the pressure of memories inside his head.

'They split us up. I was passed from militia to militia. I thought for a while they meant to trade me, but as things went on longer and longer, I realised they didn't know what to do with me. I was in this one village for several months, and I got to know the guards a bit. They weren't bad lads, they just didn't like the Americans taking over their country – that was how they saw it. Talking to them was how I found out we'd been betrayed, that Cornforth had tipped them off. And it _was_ him. They named him, and there's no way they could have had that intel otherwise. He wanted me dead, and that was what he got.'

'I'd been captive for about two years, I think, when the village I was held in was hit by an air strike. The house where I was kept had a big store of gasoline next to it. That was how I got burned. All I can remember now is coming to in agony and thinking of Julia, and just knowing I had to get out of there. Pretty much everybody in the house had been killed. I don't know how I wasn't. I just got up, and started walking. I walked and walked. There was nothing for miles. Just desert. My face was hanging off, my toes and ears and most of my fingers were burnt off, but I kept on walking. All I could think about was that there was no-one pointing a gun at my head, and somehow I had to get back home, I had to find her. She was the only thing that mattered. I suppose she was what kept me alive.

'An Iraqi police patrol picked me up eventually, and took me to a hospital. I don't know where, to this day. I didn't know my name, or who I was, or anything except Julia's first name. I lay there in that tin-pot little shack waiting to die for nearly six months, but it never happened. Nobody came for me, or worked out that I was English. My tags had been taken, so there was nothing to identify me. I didn't even have any fingerprints left. I'd been speaking Arabic with my captors so I just went on speaking it. I didn't remember anything else. The only word I could remember from my old life was Julia. Julia. I just kept saying that, but the doctors didn't know what it meant.'

'So how did you get home to Britain?'

'I started to be able to move about eventually, and began to remember things. One day I was sitting on the porch with the other hopeless cases when a British Army patrol came through. I heard English spoken for the first time, and I understood. I started talking back and the nurse was amazed. She went to get the doctor, and the next thing I knew, I was on a plane being shipped home.'

'Then why didn't you tell the authorities who you were?'

'Look at me,' Colman said, turning to Sherlock. 'If you looked like this, if your family thought you were dead, wouldn't you want them to go on thinking that? Would you want them to see you like this?'

John watched as Sherlock met Colman's gaze and suddenly looked way, ashamed.

'So you didn't contact Julia as soon as you came home,' John asked, taking the opportunity of the awkward pause to push things along, and save his friend further embarrassment at the same time.

'I was in hospital for nearly a year once I got back. I spent a lot of time on message boards, asking around. I heard she had got married. It hit me pretty hard.'

'I can imagine.' John felt Sherlock's eyes on him. 'But you decided to come to Aldershot nevertheless.'

'Couldn't help myself in the end. I read one day that Cornforth had been made garrison commander, and I knew I had to come. When I was discharged, I applied for disabled accommodation here. I just wanted to see her, not let her see me, you know? I wanted to catch a glimpse of her sometimes, just to be sure she was happy. That seemed enough.'

'Only it wasn't,' Sherlock interjected.

'No, it wasn't. Not when I got here, and started hearing stories about the way he treated her. Ordering her about, choosing her clothes. Then one day I caught a glimpse of her in town. It didn't look like her at first. Then I realised it was his version of her. And she had these dead eyes. She-'

Suddenly his voice failed, and he put his hand over his eyes, struggling to control his emotions. The cat roused itself, nudged his chin with its nose out of apparent concern.

'Stupid mog,' he muttered, and John saw him wipe away a tear hurriedly before he petted the ginger head.

'Anyway,' he said, clearing his throat and pulling himself together. 'I let myself be a bit more visible after that. Weird, though – Cornforth walked right past me one day, inches away, and didn't notice a thing. He looked right at me, and didn't recognise me at all! It was if I had never existed. I don't think I've ever hated him more.'

'So you admit you hated him?' Jeffries asked sharply.

'Wouldn't you? After what he did to me, I think I've the right. But I didn't kill him. And neither did Julia. If she had, you'd know alright!'

'Why do you say that?' Sherlock said.

'Because Julia may not have played a front line role, but she was best in our year at Sandhurst for close quarters combat.' John told him. 'If she wanted to kill someone, she wouldn't pussy about.'

Colman grinned. 'Yes, you _did _know her well, didn't you?'

'She was a bloody good soldier,' John agreed.

'So what _did_ happen yesterday at the Cornforths', if _she_ didn't kill him, and neither did you?'

Colman turned to Sherlock.

'I went to the base on Thursday for the Old Boys Lunch. She was planning to leave him –'

'Hang on,' Jeffries put in. 'I thought you said she didn't know you?'

'About a fortnight ago, she came up to me in the street. I was sitting by the market cross with some mates, enjoying the sun. You've seen me there, Mr Paston, you know I do that a lot.'

Paston nodded.

'I stopped hiding a long time ago. I thought they didn't recognise me. But that day she came up to me and she said my name, right there in the street. She'd known me all along, but she didn't have to courage to say anything to begin with. I was worried about her, she looked pale, strung out, you know? We went for a coffee at Greggs. She told me that marrying Cornforth had been a mistake. She'd done it out of despair. The day she heard I'd been listed MIA, she went and tendered her resignation, and he pounced. She said she was miserable and confused, and she just couldn't resist him anymore. He said he wanted it to be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. He'd leave her alone, sexually. It was pretty clear as soon as she'd agreed that it was a mistake. He raped her a couple of times, I think, until she started being more compliant. He wanted kids, but she went to a private clinic on the quiet and got contraceptive injections, so he wouldn't find out. She could have hurt him, I suppose, but she didn't have the stuffing for that anymore. She said losing me had beaten that out of her.'

'Did you tell her that Cornforth had betrayed you to the militants?'

'Not then. She was too upset, it was too much of a shock for her to take in that I was even alive, let alone what had happened to me. And she was angry at me that I hadn't contacted her earlier. She didn't understand how I felt about, well, being like this.'

'So you began seeing each other again behind Cornforth's back?'

'It wasn't like that. I didn't go after her. I told her that wasn't what I wanted. I knew she couldn't be with me, not now I'm like this, but I wanted to see her. I couldn't help myself.'

'She wanted to see you, though.' Sherlock's lips had fallen into a flat line, but his eyes were unreadable. John could just imagine what he was thinking.

'Yes. Then, I saw her the day before the lunch club. She came to find me in the Square. She said she had decided she was going to ask Andrew for a divorce. That frightened me. She didn't know what he was capable of, but I did-'

'So you went onto the base the next day to tell her?'

'Yes. The lads on the gate knew me from the pub so they let me in.' He glanced at Jeffries. 'Don't give them a hard time about it, poor sods. Besides, it was Club day, and I told them I was going – how would they know any different? I went up to the Mess and she was there. She came out to meet me. She was frightened that I had come onto the base, in case he saw us together and recognised me.'

'And that was when you told her?' Sherlock cocked his head on one side.

'Yes, about the ambush. She was really upset. It wasn't what I wanted, it just made her all the more determined to stand up to him, once and for all.'

'But you waited till the next day to go after her?'

'I tried to leave it be, but I was up all night worrying. In the end, I couldn't stand it. I took the bus up to the base and told the lads on the gate that I'd lost my watch and thought maybe I'd left it at the mess the day before. They searched me, but they let me through. I suppose they thought an old cripple like me wasn't much of a threat – if they'd been to Helmand they might have thought different, but they were only kids. So I walked up to the mess like I said, then circled around the back and crossed the heath behind the married quarters.

'I could see that the patio door was open when I reached the edge of the garden, and I could hear raised voices. I was really scared that he might hurt her, so I went across the lawn. They were fighting about me, alright. He gave her a shove, and that was when I got up on the back step and went in. At first he didn't see me, but then he turned around.'

Colman fell silent for a moment, his eyes glazed by the memory.

'What happened next,' John asked him, carefully.

'I know he recognised me. I saw it in his eyes. This flash of understanding happened. His face took on this horrible –' He shook his head as if he was trying to loosen the image from it. 'You know, John. You must have seen it sometimes?'

'Yes, I have.'

'He just dropped like a stone. He didn't writhe about or anything. He must have been dead before he even hit the ground. Julia screamed. Her friends started banging on the door. Julia pushed me out into the garden. She kept saying I had to go, that they couldn't know I was there, or they'd blame me. I told her I didn't care. I'd gladly take the blame if it meant she was safe, but she was adamant. She started getting a bit hysterical, so I decided it was better for me to go. I went back the way I'd come.'

The room fell silent. The cat jumped down from Colman's lap. It stalked over to Sherlock and began to rub itself against his leg, smearing ginger hair over his black trousers. He brushed at it with the back of his hand, trying to deter it, but it clearly thought he was begin affectionate and sprang onto his lap. He sat back against the sofa cushion with an expression of extreme distaste.

'How did you know I was there,' Colman eventually asked him. 'I mean, nobody saw me.'

'The cat,' Sherlock said. Bob was settling down on his thighs now, happy to torment him, as cats often are with those who detest them. 'Claw marks in the curtain fabric, paw prints in the dust on top of the pelmet, and a tuft of ginger fur on the door mat, as seen by Mrs Radclive.'

'The cat went up the curtains?' Jeffries said, incredulous.

'Yeah,' Colman nodded. 'Julia's screaming frightened him. He shot off up the top like a dart. It was a sod to get him down, but I couldn't leave him. The fur must have come off when Julia dragged him down – she had to, I couldn't reach. Poor Bob. He likes you, though.'

'He does, doesn't he,' John couldn't help grinning. Sherlock shot him a filthy look.

Suddenly someone's phone rang, and everybody jumped and went for their pockets. It was Paston who was in demand.

'Edmund Paston? Yes? Oh, right. When? Is she able to see me? Yes, Yes I can. Right, we'll be there shortly. Thanks for ringing me so promptly.'

He jabbed at the disconnect button and looked around the room at the waiting faces.

'Julia is conscious and asking for you, John.'

'Thank God,' Colman groaned, rubbing his face with his twisted claw of a hand in relief.

Jeffries got up stiffly and stretched his stilt-like legs. 'You won't be going anywhere, I presume?'

'Where is there to go?' Colman asked, looking up at him with exhausted eyes.

* * *

Tomorrow: the case starts betting to Sherlock...


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I can't believe I misspelt the teaser for yesterday's chapter. Humiliation. You probably wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't said anything. Anyway, thank you to everyone who has favourited, followed, reviewed, commented, or read, basically because I am feeling soooo much better about this.

This is where the casefic part ties up and the aftermath begins to play out. I chose this story because it seems to me very symbolic. I hope you see my point.

* * *

Walking back to Jeffries car, Sherlock touched John's arm, meaning to pull him back.

'What did he mean, about Barassa?'

'Nothing, Sherlock. Forget about it.'

'It's hardly nothing,' Jeffries said.

'You tell me then,' Sherlock demanded, 'since he won't.'

'Captain Watson here was the talk of the brigade,' Jeffries said. 'Won the DSO for courage under fire.'

'I was just doing my job,' John growled, growing redder. It was hard enough to face up to the memories of his army life that were bombarding him without having to explain this to Sherlock as well.

'Set up an operating theatre in the middle of a full-scale battle. Saved six boy's lives over the course of three days, and dozens of others still have arms and legs, thanks to him.'

'Yes, well, I only think of the ones I didn't save,' John snapped back.

The civilians, the endless procession of agonised faces that had come under his knife. There was so little he could do. He still had nightmares about it. So much blood. So much-

'John?' Sherlock touched his sleeve again, and when he turned and looked up, he saw a deep concern in his friend's eyes.

'It's not something I like to think about, that's all,' John told him, trying to smile reassurance, and failing.

'Bloody brave,' Jeffries went on, oblivious.

'We'd better get on to the hospital,' Paston said, and a glance at his features told John he was far more sensitive to John's distress than the red cap was.

'Yes, we'd better get on, hadn't we,' Sherlock agreed, and they yanked the car doors open. Sherlock cast John an 'Are you okay?' glance, and he nodded, even though he wasn't. Not really. Today had brought up a lot of things he had thought were behind him. He would be glad to get it sorted and get home to London, and their 'safe' life of helter-skelter detection and danger in the City. He knew that the adrenaline would help blot out the past better than anything else. That, and Sherlock's all-enveloping mind.

* * *

'Julia?'

John lent over the bed, and laid a gentle hand on her upper arm. Her eyes flickered open and she frowned for a moment before the recognition came to her.

'John?' She managed a frail smile. 'You came.'

'Yes. It's all sorted, you don't have to worry now. Sherlock figured everything out.'

She blinked at Sherlock, who was standing behind John at the bedside.

'You're Sherlock?'

He nodded.

She looked up at John. 'He's handsome. I'm so happy for you.'

How many times had he heard that sentiment, he wondered. He let it go these days. People made their assumptions, and they were welcome to them.

'We found Mike,' he told her instead. 'He's very worried about you.'

Tears brimmed in her eyes. 'He's been through so much.'

'I know. He told us.'

'I don't know how Andrew could have done that-'

'Julia, I have to ask you this: Did either of you lay a hand on Andrew?'

'No, no!' She tried to sit up, propping herself onto her elbows, but he rested a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

'It's okay, lie back, it's okay. I just had to ask. We need to be absolutely certain. He died of the shock, didn't he? When he finally recognised Mike?'

'He must have really believed Mike was dead,' she said, her head sinking back into the pillow. She was pale, her eyes sunken, with bags underneath, a shadow of her former beauty.

'Edmund Paston is here with us, and he's got Lieutenant Jeffries from the Military Police with him, but you don't have to talk to them now if you don't want to. I understand they are keeping you in overnight.'

'Yes, I think so. John, I really don't want to talk to them right now. Please can you-'

'Don't worry, I'll sort it out. They can come tomorrow, alright?'

'Yes, that will be okay. I just _can't_ now.'

'Just try to get some rest. We're going back to London tonight, but ring me if you need anything, won't you?'

'Yes, thank you so much, you've both been so kind.'

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and then they filed out.

* * *

Paston and Jeffries were waiting in the corridor.

'Is she fit to see us?' Jeffries asked John.

'Wait till tomorrow morning. By the state of her, I'd say every word of Colman's story is true. There's no way she could have killed Cornforth, right, Sherlock?'

To his amazement, Sherlock was looking decidedly stormy, but he nodded his assent.

'Tomorrow morning, then,' Paston said.

'Can I give you gents a ride back to the station?' Jeffries offered.

'No, no, you go on,' Sherlock said, sharply. 'We'll catch a cab.'

'Good luck with that one,' Paston said as he shook hands. 'The queues here are horrendous!'

Jeffries delivered a sharp salute to John. 'Privilege to have met you, sir.'

They watched the two men disappear around the corner, and then John turned to Sherlock.

'What's up with you?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock snapped. 'Precisely nothing.'

'Captain Watson?' Colman was advancing up the corridor with his tortured, crablike gait. Bob the cat was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was carrying an enormous bunch of red roses. 'How is she?'

'Pretty bashed up, but I think she'll be a lot better for seeing you,' John smiled.

Colman looked sheepish. 'I don't know what I'm doing, bringing flowers like this. It's not like I can be anything to her now.'

'You underestimate yourself,' John told him. 'You've got a chance of happiness that not a lot of people get. Few people come back from the dead, you know. Don't let it slip away.'

'Yeah, maybe,' Colman sighed. He held out his mutilated hand, and John shook it without hesitation. Sherlock did likewise, remaining silent. And then the Melted Man limped through the door and into Julia's room.

'How could you do that?' Sherlock snarled, turning on John the instant Colman was out of earshot. 'Encouraging the poor bastard? I expected better of you!'

'What the hell's got into you?' John snapped back. 'This was just a quick favour to a friend! Something to keep you occupied for an afternoon, and now you're all in a fury about it!'

Sherlock stalked off up the corridor, and John had to run after him to catch up. He grabbed the detective's arm and spun him on the spot. Sherlock loomed over him and began to vent:

'Can't you see? You're only setting him up for disappointment! It won't last!'

'I think you underestimate the power of love, Sherlock, but then that's hardly a surprise!'

Sherlock waived his arm in the direction of Julia's room. 'You said yourself that she only goes for the pretty boys! I give it six months, John. Six months of looking at that nightmare, and she'll be on the phone to you to say she couldn't go through with it, I guarantee it!'

'You're wrong, Sherlock,' John growled, wondering why they were having such a heated argument over it. 'And even if you weren't, why does it matter to you?'

'Because she should have waited!' Sherlock shouted, full throat now, and the nurses manning the nurses' station along the corridor scowled at them.

'What the hell-'

'She should have waited, John! He walked across the desert with his face hanging off to find her! She should have waited!'

'She thought he was dead!'

'She should have waited! You would have!'

John gaped. Sherlock spun on his heel and stormed away, but then John found his voice.

'I did!'

Sherlock froze, and his head dropped. Then he turned and retraced his steps, closing on John until he was well within his personal space, looking down at him, his eyes the colour of battleships in a storm.

'Yes,' he said, and his voice was oddly husky and low. 'Yes, you did. And every day I spent away from you was like crawling through a blast furnace on my hands and knees. But I did it, and do you know why? Because I knew that despite everything, at the end of it, we would find each other again, and it would be all right.'

The words hung between them.

John felt as if his feet might go out from under him. The vast tectonic plates of their relationship had shifted suddenly and irrevocably. The world was made strange and new, with no reference points.

Sherlock gestured at the room again.

'She's not like you,' he said. 'You are loyal and brave and strong. You are _worth_ walking across a desert for.'

Their gazes had locked, John realised, what felt like eons after it had happened. The world had disappeared. There was only Sherlock. The scent of his skin and clothes, so close. The flash of anger and pain and devotion in his eyes. Those wild curls. That huge heart.

Then Sherlock did something even more unexpected. He leant his head forward, his eyes fluttering closed, until his forehead rested gently against John's.

'Oh, John,' he breathed.

The melee of emotion under John's breastbone stilled in an instant. A veil of peace descended over him as his own lids slid shut. Suddenly he was enveloped in a sublime stillness, a bliss so complete that he found himself hoping it would never end.

But of course, this was Sherlock, so it did.

The detective's head snapped up. 'We'd better hurry or we'll miss our train,' he said, and stalked off.

John was left standing in the middle of the corridor in a daze until he realised Sherlock had disappeared. Then the leonine head appeared around the corner and Sherlock called to him.

'Well? Are you coming or what?'

* * *

Tomorrow, the final part, and John and Sherlock face up to their new reality...


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Thank you in abundance to everyone who has favourited, followed and reviewed. You are a huge comfort and a great incentive. More stories are on their way to you.

**Warning:** Contains references to gay sex and male anatomy. And ginger hair. Don't say I didn't tell you.

* * *

The London train was packed. People were making the most of the long sunny summer evenings to go into the Big Smoke to party, or see a show. Sherlock and John found themselves sandwiched together in a corner, penned in by the bulk of a woman so enormous she had to spread her thighs to more than ninety degrees in order to accommodate her drooping belly. They watched in disbelief as she proceeded to fish a large box of diet crunchy bars out of her bag and eat the lot, oblivious to either the amount of space she was taking up or the way she was spraying other passengers with seeds and pieces of nut from her food.

John watched in a kind of dazed fascination. His head was spinning anyway, so it was a distraction. But Sherlock's long body pressed against his side kept drawing him back to the exchange in the hospital corridor.

From the twinge of half-forgotten desire at the first mention of Julia's name that morning on the telephone with Paston, to the electric pressure of Sherlock's thigh trapped against his own, John's mind was awash with feeling and sensation. It had been more than enough to have to cope with the return to Aldershot, to face the once familiar world of uniform and regiment, to handle the memories that came rushing back. And then there was Sherlock's outburst.

John didn't understand. Sherlock didn't do feelings. Yes, there had been emotion when he had returned home after the whole faked death thing, there had been John's anger and sense of betrayal, and the pain of grief. But he had never for a moment guessed that Sherlock thought of him as anything more than a friend.

There had been a lot of things that John had been forced to face when he lost Sherlock. Somehow, he had managed to bury a lot of them.

Today had brought them back.

He didn't know where he and Sherlock went from here.

* * *

Where they _actually_ went was, of course, London. At Waterloo, Sherlock cavalierly ignored shouts of protest at the taxi rank and commandeered the first cab that arrived with a shout of 'Urgent Police Business!' and a wave of Greg's missing warrant card (thumb carefully positioned over the photo, of course). John scrambled in behind him, embarrassed and ashamed yet again. They sat in silence on the drive home, both staring up at the buildings they passed. The sky was glowering, a hot, sunny day obviously about to conclude with a rainstorm. John shook his head at the British weather. It felt like the only thing in his life that was predictable.

John took the stairs two at a time to catch up – Sherlock having bolted as soon as the taxi drew up, leaving John to deal with the fare as usual. When he got to the top, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The flat was hot and stuffy. Sherlock was standing at the window, silhouetted against the silver light of evening. He had thrown the sash open, and the net moved softly around him, everything else dark but for that gauze billow. He looked like something from another world.

'It's started to rain,' Sherlock said, softly.

John went to stand beside him. For a while, the city around them seemed to still, breathing out the heat in a mist of twilight and quenching downpour. Drops pattered on the painted windowsill. Sherlock reached out, palm up, caught a few on his skin.

'I love summer rain,' he breathed. 'Washes everything so clean. Smells so sharp. A fresh start.'

John found himself drawing closer, unable to resist this strange, whimsical mood. It took a moment to realise that Sherlock's arm had drifted gently around his waist.

'Sherlock?' he whispered.

'I know you can't, John,' the detective told him, eyes still focused out there, on the street, where the rain fell in pearlescent sheets onto steaming tarmac. 'But I need you to know. I need to say it.'

John's hand lifted, palm resting on Sherlock's chest. He was not aware of wanting to do that, he realised, staring at his knuckles. It had found its way there of its own accord, as if it was going home.

'Say it, then.'

'I love you.'

The words sang in his blood. He bent his head forward, resting his brow against Sherlock's shoulder. Once more, he felt the world slow, and that deep bliss descend on him. Would it always be like this, he wondered, if he gave in to this love?

'I need to know what you want from me,' he said, hardly daring to speak in case he broke the moment, shattered this heavenly stillness forever.

'It doesn't matter what I want.'

'It does. It really does. But you have to say it, so I know.'

Sherlock was silent, as if gathering himself. John could feel that huge heart racing against his own forehead.

'I want to laugh with you,' he whispered after a moment. 'I want to talk with you and argue with you. I want to eat with you, and drink your tea. I want to share your bed. I want to drift into sleep beside you at night, and wake in your arms in the mornings. I want to lie around the flat in my pyjamas and watch dreadful telly with you. I want to hear you say 'that's brilliant,' when other people would just punch me or call me a freak, and I want to hear you say it every day. I want to grow old with you, and when it comes to it, I want your face to be the last thing I see before I die.'

John lifted his head and looked into Sherlock's eyes. They had changed to the colour of sea glass.

'That's pretty comprehensive,' he smiled.

'I've always been thorough,' Sherlock replied, twinkling.

'The dying part,' John said. 'You aren't planning to do that again too soon, are you? Only I don't think I'm quite ready for a repeat performance just yet.'

'No,' Sherlock whispered. 'Not for years. Decades, in fact.'

'Good.'

They were staring into each other's eyes.

'You aren't running away, screaming 'I'm not gay',' Sherlock observed.

'I'm not, am I? Now why do you think that is?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Frankly, I have no idea. It's certainly not the response I expected.'

John reached up and touched Sherlock's cheek gently. 'Well, here's the thing: when I lost you, I realised there were a whole lot of things I wished I had said to you. I mean, apart from 'You idiot!' and 'Why didn't you talk to me about it?''

'Of course.' Sherlock bent his head, coming infinitesimally closer, looking deeply into John's eyes as if he were measuring every fractional response.

John took a deep breath. 'I realised I'd never told you that I, well, that I love you.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I do.'

'Oh.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned.

'Do you want me to repeat that?' John grinned.

'Are you still not gay?'

'I think that is a bit irrelevant now, don't you?'

'Possibly.'

'Well, what do you think?'

'I think I very much want to kiss you, if that would be acceptable?'

'More than acceptable.'

Sherlock moved in, his eyes darting down to John's lips.

'It's okay,' John whispered. 'It's fine.'

And then it finally happened. The thing the whole world had been holding its breath for since that first afternoon in the lab at Bart's, when Mike Stamford had introduced them as potential flatmates, and a legend had been born. The thing that John had been waiting for since he lost his one true love, the thing he had been hoping for since his one true love came back.

It wasn't how either of them had imagined it would be, that precious moment. For John, it was primarily not how he had imagined because Sherlock's idea of kissing appeared to depend almost entirely on the application of pounds per square inch.

When it was over, John came up for air with bruised lips and the suspicion of dislocated cervical vertebrae. Sherlock crooked his neck back, drawing his chin in, and frowned unhappily.

'That wasn't how I thought it would feel,' he said.

John brushed the pad of his thumb across Sherlock's lower lip lightly, and the detective's eyelids fluttered closed.

He sighed. 'Oh.'

'I think that perhaps we should try it again,' John whispered, leaning closer. 'But a little less intense this time.'

And then John proceeded to give Sherlock a lesson on the stimulation of the tightly packed sensory nerve clusters in the mouth and tongue.

Sherlock whimpered.

Sherlock moaned.

Sherlock's knees gave way, but luckily John had his arms around him, and he caught him deftly.

Sherlock's eyelids cracked open, and he looked at John with slightly unfocussed eyes.

'Is it always this good?'

'Sometimes its better,' John smirked.

'I think I need to sit down.'

'I have a better idea,' said John.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Sherlock. Lying on his back, with sweat trickling down his sides. Hair like a bird's nest. Skin gleaming. He dabbled his middle finger in the well of semen that had gathered in his navel and examined it.

'Oh,' he gasped, because he still had not caught his breath.

'Give me a minute,' John panted beside him. 'I'll get a flannel.'

Sherlock let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling.

'Gosh,' he said.

John laughed, a wheezy laugh, because he was still trying to get his breath back too. 'Only you would say something like that at this precise moment!'

'I'm not sure I know what else to say. What _does_ one say in such a situation?'

'How about, "fuck me, that was the best sex I've ever had"?'

'That was the _only_ sex I've ever had,' Sherlock added.

'I gathered that.'

'What gave me away?'

'Let's start with the kissing technique.'

'Yes, well, I think I've got that sorted now.'

'Yes, I think you have.' John was grinning up at the ceiling too. 'Fuck, Sherlock, you really are incredible!'

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grin. 'Thank you.'

They lay there for a while longer.

'John?'

'Mmmm?'

'I didn't think you did _that_.'

'Well, there you go.'

'I mean, you said you'd never been with a man before.'

'Doesn't mean I've never done that. Men aren't the only ones who enjoy it, you know.'

'Really?'

John shrugged. 'I had a girlfriend once who was really into it. And it's a bit like riding a bike, you kind of never forget how.' Then a thought struck him and he rolled onto his side to look at Sherlock.

'Anyway, there's something you didn't tell me either.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Oh, you noticed.'

'Hardly going to miss that.'

'Yes, collar and cuffs don't match. What of it?'

'Sherlock, you're a red head!'

'Auburn, actually.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Why should I? It's one of the few bits of advice Mycroft ever gave me that proved useful.'

'Mycroft's a ginge, too?

'Horribly. Much brighter than me, at any rate. He's been dyeing his hair since he was about 17. Nobody takes you seriously if you have red hair.'

John looked down at the soft, ruddy curls twined around the base of Sherlock's cock. There was suddenly something so poignant, so vulnerable about the artifice of Sherlock colouring his hair in order to be taken seriously. He couldn't help reaching out to stroke, teasing a few fronds out, tenderly.

'I think it's lovely.'

'Not going to happen,' Sherlock said, flatly.

'What?'

'You want me to grow my colour out. It's unthinkable, so don't even ask.'

'Well, I can't comment, I'm a bit ginger down there myself.'

'Fair hair,' Sherlock observed, and ruffled John's fringe fondly. And winced, very slightly, at the movement.

'Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'Really?'

'Really, not at all. I thought it might be uncomfortable, but it was lovely. I think it was that thing you did with your mouth, you know-'

'Oh, right. Good.'

'You know that's illegal in some parts of the world, don't you?'

'I think pretty much everything we've just done is illegal somewhere, love.'

'Do you realise you just called me love?'

'Oh, God, I'm sorry, I-'

'No, I liked it. I just thought I should point it out. But I think perhaps its better if you don't call me that when we are working, don't you? I'm not sure it would go down well with the likes of Donovan and Anderson.'

'Since when do you care what they think?'

'Never, but there's no reason to give them any further ammunition, is there?'

'I suppose not. Love.'

Sherlock giggled. He actually giggled. It was impossibly perfect.

'So, when can we do it again?'

'Sherlock!'

'It's a reasonable question.'

'Give me a break! I'm not as young as I was, you know!' John gave him a kiss. 'Besides, you are really going to feel that tomorrow.'

'I already do. I think I shall be walking funny for a week!'

'Oh, God, this is just too surreal!'

Sherlock pulled him close for a long, breathy kiss. 'Perhaps you could put it in my mouth, how would that be?'

'Sherlock Holmes, you are a _very bad_ man.'

* * *

The End. Thank you for joining me. More stories soon, I promise.


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